


Men of Insanity

by kelios



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Dark Winchesters, First Time Wincest, Gore, Horror, M/M, Murder, Serial Killers, Underage - Freeform, Wincest - Freeform, Wincest Writing Challenge, but not BAD Winchesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-25
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2019-01-23 01:11:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12495064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kelios/pseuds/kelios
Summary: Sam just wants to know where Dean is sneaking off to. What he finds is a revelation.





	Men of Insanity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Wincest Writing Challenge on Tumblr. The prompt was a (made up) book title: Men of Insanity. 
> 
> Dedicated a group of amazing authors and humans whose talent far outstrips mine. I hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Thank you to mais_fica and Thorkiship18 for reading through this and holding my hand, basically. I've never written anything quite this dark before.

Sam looks around carefully, frowning. He knows this neighborhood; he’d been here a few months earlier with Dean and John. They’d broken up a coven of suburban witches, drunk on power and willing to do anything, even murder their own children, for more. Dean had argued against leaving the coven alive, convinced they’d do more harm if they were left alone, but John had refused to kill them and Dean had eventually acquiesced. They’d moved on to new cases, or so Sam had thought; but apparently not because now Dean is back, breaking into the home of the coven’s leader under the cover of twilight. 

It’s not the first time something like this has happened. Sam’s convinced of that. Over the past several months, Dean has left Sam on his own two other times that Sam knows of, waiting til John leaves then telling Sam not to wait up. Sam had assumed his brother was just hooking up the first time, but something about his secretiveness since had set off alarm bells Sam didn't even know he had. 

Now, Sam’s creeping through the house carefully, trying to find Dean without alerting anyone else to his presence. He’d watched earlier in confusion as his brother confidently carried a duffle bag around to the back of the house. A few minutes later the drapes in the front window had slid closed, and Sam had spent the next half hour driving himself crazy wondering what was going on before deciding to find out.

The lock gave way easily to his efforts and Sam slipped inside the front door quietly, trying to look as though he’d been invited in. Dean isn’t immediately visible, but Sam can hear soft, indistinct sounds coming from further in the house. Sam tries to be as careful and quiet as he can given his stupidly long and awkward limbs, but in the end it’s not his arms or legs that give him away. It’s his mouth, and the soft, shocked sound that escapes him, unbidden, when he sees what his brother is doing. 

Dean tenses at the sound and turns, bringing up his favorite gun and pointing it unerringly at Sam in one smooth motion that is probably the most terrifying thing that’s happened to Sam in his entire life.

He relaxes slightly when he sees Sam, putting the gun back down and frowning slightly. 

“Sammy?” he says mildly, stepping forward. “What are you doing here, kiddo?” The woman tied spread eagle on what used to be her dining room table moans softly, but Sam can’t look away from his brother. Dean’s chest is bare except for a few streaks of blood and sweat, the gleam of his amulet-- _Sam’s_ amulet--still tied around his neck. There’s blood on his jeans, too, and Sam’s mouth goes dry when he sees that Dean is hard, telltale smear of blood highlighting the swell of his cock behind his fly and sending an almost painful throb of arousal through Sam.

Dean steps closer, and Sam manages to lift his eyes up to Dean’s. He can’t quite catch his breath, his heart pounding dizzyingly. “What--” he manages to choke out, and Dean reaches out, feather light slide of his hand over Sam’s cheek. 

“She’s evil, Sam,” Dean says softly, watching Sam’s reaction, the way he turns into Dean’s hand, blood and all. “I knew it, you knew it, Dad knew it. I knew if we just let her go she would go right back to what she was doing--they all would have. It was just a matter of time.”

Sam swallows hard, nods. He gets it, feels the rightness of it sink into him down to his very bones. The cases with kids--those have always hit Dean hardest, and this one had been especially ugly. Sam had been left with a chill in his bones that time had only partially erased. “Are--” His voice cracks embarrassingly. “Are you going to kill them all?” 

Dean shakes his head. “No need. I think this will be warning enough.” He hesitates, considering, hopeful. “Do you want to see?”

Sam nods again, trying not to seem too eager. He does want to see, not because of the woman, but because what he’s really looking at is _Dean_. This is Dean distilled down to his essence, his core--saving people, hunting things, and if sometimes the things are also the people then so be it. Dean’s fierce desire to protect the innocent and punish the truly wicked, his innate goodness and kindness and love for those who need him--those are the things Sam is seeing now, no matter what his eyes tell him. Sam feels almost feverish with the need to experience these parts of his brother that are laid bare and open here in ways he’s never even imagined before. 

Dean steps aside so that Sam can slowly approach the table. The woman--he thinks her name was Carol--is panting through the gag Dean stuffed in her mouth, eyes rolling frantically as she tries to struggle and can’t. Sam takes his time, wants to savor every part of himself Dean is offering up.

Carol looks almost nothing like she did two months ago. Pain and fear have left her haggard, skin pale and drawn tight as the gag in her mouth stretches her lips thin and bloodless. Her eyes were blue when they first met, but Sam can barely tell now, her pupils so wide with agony he can see just the faintest, thinnest rim of color. There’s blood in her blonde hair, staining Sam’s fingers red as he strokes it gently, shushing her silent, sobbing cries, and a swelling bruise on her cheek from where Dean had subdued her. 

There’s more blood lashed across her shoulders and breasts in thick, violent streaks. Daringly, Sam swirls his fingers through the blood on her abdomen where it’s pooled and soaked into the waistband of the jeans she’s still wearing, feeling a rush of affection for Dean because of course he would still try to be as respectful as possible, for his own sake if not hers. He even ducks down to examine the ropes and knots Dean used to tie her to the table, determined to appreciate every single aspect of Dean’s presentation.

But the whole time he’s aware that none of this is what Dean really wants him to see. 

The real star of Dean’s show is her heart. 

Somehow, Dean managed to keep her alive as he cracked her open, exposed the very center of her. Sam reaches past the makeshift retractor Dean used to hold her bones and muscles apart and widen the gaping, bloody hole he’d made in the middle of her chest, then stops. He’s aching to touch this part of his brother, but it’s too personal, too _intimate,_ too clearly fraught with meaning to take this without permission.

Sam looks back at Dean, seeking his approval, and nearly forgets about the woman on the table. Dean’s arousal is clear in his parted lips, his heavy lidded eyes, his quickened breath. He’s not touching himself, but when Sam’s eyes catch on the long thick line of Dean’s cock it twitches as though Sam were touching him with his body instead of his gaze. Sam lifts his eyes back to Dean’s, his heart slamming crazily against his ribs as Dean steps closer, so close Sam can feel the heat and want coming off of him in waves. His eyes flutter when Dean touches him, hands light and gentle on his shoulders as he urges Sam back toward the table, urges Sam to look again before pressing against him, long line of heat sinking into Sam’s bones like the sun on a cold day. He rolls his hips into Sam, slow grind that leaves Sam gasping and dizzy as he catches himself against the table with both hands. 

“Go ahead, Sammy,” Dean whispers, low and rough like silk over gravel, and Sam reaches out slowly, fear and arousal and horror making his hand shake slightly as he slides his fingers between the jagged bones and torn skin.

It’s warm, and a little slimy. Sam maybe shouldn’t be surprised, but he is, in a shocky how-is-this-real kind of way. The woman screams soundlessly, the muscle under Sam’s fingers jumping wildly as he strokes it tentatively with the pads of his fingers, then with more confidence. 

“Sammy, God--” Dean groans almost inaudibly, his hips pushing into Sam again, steady grind and press that’s already driving Sam out of his mind with want. Dean reaches out and covers Sam’s hand with his, lacing their fingers together and Sam’s breath stutters in his throat as Dean guides him, stretches his fingers out until her heart is resting entirely under his hand. The panicked beats, erratic with pain and fear, race up his arm, and Sam remembers how young her would-be victims had been, how she’d used their terror and pain to feed her power. 

Before he can get lost in memory, in righteous vindication, Dean’s other hand falls heavy on his shoulder. His fingertips slide under the collar of Sam’s shirt, rough and still tacky with drying blood, just like Sam has imagined so many times before. His breath leaves him in a rush, the feel of Dean’s hand against his skin as heady and intoxicating as the vengeance waiting under their joined hands. Sam’s head falls back against Dean’s chest, eyes half closed as Dean trails his fingers up Sam’s throat to grip his jaw and slowly begins to tighten both hands. 

“Can you feel it, Sam?” he whispers, breath ghosting hot over Sam’s cheek. His hips move steadily against Sam, driving him forward into the edge of the table in a rush of sweet, merciless pleasure/pain. “Can you feel all the evil she’s done in her life, slipping away?” Sam doesn’t-- _can’t_ \--answer as Dean finally kisses him, lips pressed warm and sweet against his pulse. Sam’s hand clenches as he comes, soundless and gasping against Dean’s fingers, wave after endless wave of pleasure rolling through him as the heartbeat in his hand falters and stops. 

Dean holds him as he comes down, one hand splayed possessively across Sam’s chest, over his heart, the other still interlaced with Sam’s where it’s buried in the woman’s chest. Sam flexes his fingers underneath Dean’s, spreading them through the crushed, gory remains of her heart, and feels Dean shudder against him. Dean’s still hard as he pulls Sam around, hands on Sam’s hips like a vise, tugging them both free as gore drips across the table. Sam looks up at him, happy and still dazed, leaning up to kiss him as Dean’s eyes slip closed. He lets Sam’s lips graze his before he pulls back. 

“Sam,” he whispers, desperate and conflicted. “Sammy…”

Sam chases Dean’s lips, silences him with another kiss. He feels giddy, punch drunk on pleasure and power and _Dean_. 

“I just need to know, Dean,” he says quietly, so close he can feel Dean’s breath on his lips. “Is this--” his hand traces the hard line of Dean’s cock where it’s trapped behind his jeans, adds new lines of color to the bloody mess testifying to how much pleasure Dean takes from wreaking his vengeance--”is this for her or for me?”

Dean’s ragged groan clears Sam’s head, sets his blood on fire. “You, Sammy. God. It’s all about you, been thinking about doing this with you, having you here with me, the whole time.”

That’s...not what Sam wants to hear, exactly. “You never thought about...us? Before this?” 

Dean opens his eyes, looks down at Sam with so much want and love. Sam wants to wrap himself up in that look, in that feeling, bask in the warmth of it forever. “Thought about it every day, Sam,” he confesses. “I hated myself for it, hated myself for wanting that from you. I’m no better than some of these things I’ve taken down.”

“Never,” Sam whispers. “Dean, you would never hurt me. That’s the difference between you and them. I trust you, Dean. Please trust me, too. Trust me that I can make this choice.” 

Dean nods slowly, then leans forward. This time when his lips meet Sam’s he doesn’t stop, doesn’t pull back. He eats at Sam’s mouth like he’s starving, one hand locked on Sam’s hip, the other tangled in his hair as Sam arches into him with a moan. It’s perfect, everything Sam dreams about when he dreams about Dean. He fumbles at Dean’s belt, suddenly desperate to see him, feel him. Dean sucks in a sharp breath as he realizes what Sam’s doing, but he doesn’t stop him, doesn’t stop kissing him, even when Sam wrenches open the damp denim and wraps his hand, still sticky with blood, around Dean’s leaking cock. Dean jolts against him, shoving forward into Sam’s hand with a groan, leaving Sam’s mouth to force his eyes down. They watch together, twinned breaths rasping hoarsely from raw throats as Sam strokes him unsteadily, fast and needy and desperate, the blood staining his hand painting Dean’s cock with thick red swirls as Dean comes with a choked off sound that Sam wants to hear every day forever. 

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean says roughly when he can breathe again, talk again. “ _Fuck._ ” He straightens up on wobbly legs, kissing Sam slowly and thoroughly before taking a reluctant step back. Sam clings to him, chasing his mouth, unwilling to break that connection, and Dean smiles down at him. “Gotta finish up, little brother,” he says gently. “Watch.”

Sam watches as Dean tucks himself away, still wet with blood and come. Sam thinks about cleaning it off later, licks his lips and swallows the saliva pooling on his tongue as he palms himself unconsciously, already hard again. Dean doesn’t miss his reaction, smile widening into something more heated as he slowly wipes his hands on his already filthy jeans before moving past Sam to the duffle bag lying unobtrusively on the floor. He rummages through it for a moment, digging out various items and setting them up. Sam tries to wait for Dean to show him, but he can’t help craning his neck toward the bag, curiosity winning out over patience. 

Dean stands back up and flushes a little when he sees Sam’s expression. “It’s just something I like to do,” he says, dropping his eyes, and Sam follows his gaze to where Dean’s holding a small sealed container and a large envelope. The container goes on the table as Dean opens the envelope and begins pulling out pictures of the altar the woman--Carol--had built in her basement along with the rest of her coven. Pictures of their sacrifices--animals and, to Sam’s horror, a child--follow them, painting a picture of depravity that turns Sam’s stomach. 

“Dean--” Sam’s voice breaks. “Dean, I thought--didn’t we--” He points to the picture, unable to say what he’s thinking. 

Dean shakes his head. “I found out while I was looking into cominb back,” he says, hate making his voice harsh. “These sick fucks had a dark room. I grabbed some of the undeveloped film on impulse, got a friend to let me use the back room at the Quikimart to see what was on them.” 

“Did you tell Dad?” 

“No point,” Dean says shortly. “You know how Dad is when he makes up his mind. I tried, early on, to make him understand, but he didn’t want to hear.” Dean’s done with the pictures now. He looks up at Sam, nods toward the duffle bag on the floor. “Step back, Sammy.” He waits til Sam moves back a few feet, then opens the container carefully and shakes a small amount of black powder directly onto the crushed remains of her heart. 

“What is that?” Sam asks, fascinated. 

“Black mold and mushroom spores,” Dean tells him, closing the container tightly. He looks faintly embarrassed. “It’s just...it fits, you know? By the time anyone finds her it will already be growing and they’ll all see the rottenness that she hid inside herself for so long.” 

Sam nods in slow agreement. Dean’s right--it fits. “I like it,” he says. “I like the symbolism.” 

Dean ducks his head a little at Sam’s approval. “Help me clean up?” he asks, tentative and sweet, melting Sam’s heart a little more as he drops the container back in the duffle and returning to the table. Sam follows Dean’s lead, impressed by his quick and thorough routine: ropes cut free and put into a plastic bag along with Sam’s shirt, retractor in another bag with the hammer, chisel and knife that are already there. Baby wipes scrub away any stray fingerprints and fluids-- _first time I had to worry about that,_ Dean says under his breath, stealing a quick glance at Sam as they work. When they're done he tosses Sam the clean shirt he’d brought to wear himself, buttoning his flannel over his own bare chest instead. 

All in all it takes less than ten minutes with the two of them working. Everything goes into the duffel and Dean leads Sam out the back door. It’s dark now, and Dean seems confident that they won’t be seen based on the surveillance he’d done previously. He’s right, and they make it back to the Impala where it’s parked at a quiet park a mile or so away without incident. They don’t talk as they walk, both of them caught in their own thoughts, until they are settled in the Impala and Dean breaks the silence.

“I guess that was pretty intense back there.” It's not a question, but Sam finds himself nodding anyway, a thrill of remembered excitement running through him as he flexes his fingers against his knee. The blood is gone, but he can still feel the tough muscle of her heart surging frantically in his hand, mixed indelibly with the feel of Dean’s hands and lips on his skin. His breath catches and he's not surprised to find he's half hard again already despite the unpleasant mess in his boxers.

“Are you really okay with what we did?” Sam can feel Dean's eyes on him, boring into him, searching his soul, so he hesitates, really thinks about what he wants to say. He can sense how important this is for Dean, how important this for _both_ of them, and he wants Dean to understand him perfectly. He turns slightly in his seat so that Dean can see his face, his determination.

“What you're doing is right,” he says softly. “It's necessary. If you--if _we_ \--weren't stopping these people, they'd just go back to what they were doing, and then what's the point? Why risk our lives for half measures?” The intensity in his voice surprises them both, Sam most of all as he realizes how much truth there is in what he’s saying. “I mean…” he says slowly, feeling out each thought carefully. “You could have died when we were stopping that woman the first time. Or Dad, or me. And yet we let her just walk away. Dad says we put the fear of God in them, but no one’s afraid of God. Not really.” He leans forward, his eyes never leaving Dean’s. “So I say we make them fear _us_ instead.” 

“Fuck, Sammy,” Dean says reverently. He cups Sam’s cheek, smiling softly as Sam leans into the touch again, groaning when Sam nuzzles into his palm, tongue flicking out for a quick taste of salt and sweat. “I wish we had more time, but we need to get the hell out of Dodge before the sun comes up.” 

“Where are we going?”

Dean’s smile sharpens, eyes gleaming in the darkness with green fire and a touch of divine madness that makes Sam want to pull him into the back seat right now, police be damned. “Anywhere we want, little brother. Anywhere we want.”


End file.
